The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind
To be fair, she is absolutely a nesting dragon. A bird, a dragon, both are accurate. She is the type of girl to fly away or come back as she pleases. She is the type of girl to breath fire and burn the world down to the ground around her. She is the type of girl to sit in a nest of her own making and wait. For what? She never knows.
She nods at the compliment to her tattoos. ”There’s a reason you wanted his name,” she points out, though still, she is pleased at the compliment. He is an excellent artist, and her family deserved nothing less than the best.
She finds herself a little too content with his arm draped around her, resting on the small of her back. A little too content at the warmth of him, and she should definitely blame the booze but she does not. In truth, she just finds him easy to be around, maybe because they are not all that different. They are far from good and though they care about others, they still live for themselves, driven by passion and foolish decisions. She reaches one arm down, pulling up the pillow she’d stolen before and sticks it under her own head, perhaps willing to share whatever she doesn’t need.
”It looks more like a reindeer than a deer,” she says, though in truth it doesn’t entirely look like either. Still, she would not consider his horned thing form a deer. Horned thing. Nyala. Whatever. (She liked horned thing). His hand slips to her hip at that, and she lets him, not minding his fingers on her. The familiar feathers appear on his arm and he names the bird. She itches to reach out and pluck one, but she stops herself, deciding to be well behaved for the moment. ”Has Korbin warned you I collect feathers?” A few of those really would look lovely in a cloak, the dark blue glinting among the black (gods, Korbin would throw a damn fit). Then the black fur of a panther, gone before she can reach out to stroke it. The tail of a whale and she laughs, clearly pleased. ”That is why you are a mermaid pirate!” Her delight and amusement is a palpable thing, and her smile is Cheshire.
The horns, the tongue, and the wing of a bat. She reaches out to touch the tip of the horns, the soft membrane of the wing that now curls on her hip. Always a creature of touch, Weaver, like a child who learns the world by feeling it. She’d poke the tongue too, but it’s too quick to catch, and maybe that’s a step too far. ”Rather the impressive array. Two bars and a boxing ring. What, six different shifts? What other surprises are you hiding?”
She nods at the compliment to her tattoos. ”There’s a reason you wanted his name,” she points out, though still, she is pleased at the compliment. He is an excellent artist, and her family deserved nothing less than the best.
She finds herself a little too content with his arm draped around her, resting on the small of her back. A little too content at the warmth of him, and she should definitely blame the booze but she does not. In truth, she just finds him easy to be around, maybe because they are not all that different. They are far from good and though they care about others, they still live for themselves, driven by passion and foolish decisions. She reaches one arm down, pulling up the pillow she’d stolen before and sticks it under her own head, perhaps willing to share whatever she doesn’t need.
”It looks more like a reindeer than a deer,” she says, though in truth it doesn’t entirely look like either. Still, she would not consider his horned thing form a deer. Horned thing. Nyala. Whatever. (She liked horned thing). His hand slips to her hip at that, and she lets him, not minding his fingers on her. The familiar feathers appear on his arm and he names the bird. She itches to reach out and pluck one, but she stops herself, deciding to be well behaved for the moment. ”Has Korbin warned you I collect feathers?” A few of those really would look lovely in a cloak, the dark blue glinting among the black (gods, Korbin would throw a damn fit). Then the black fur of a panther, gone before she can reach out to stroke it. The tail of a whale and she laughs, clearly pleased. ”That is why you are a mermaid pirate!” Her delight and amusement is a palpable thing, and her smile is Cheshire.
The horns, the tongue, and the wing of a bat. She reaches out to touch the tip of the horns, the soft membrane of the wing that now curls on her hip. Always a creature of touch, Weaver, like a child who learns the world by feeling it. She’d poke the tongue too, but it’s too quick to catch, and maybe that’s a step too far. ”Rather the impressive array. Two bars and a boxing ring. What, six different shifts? What other surprises are you hiding?”
Weaver
